


You found me beautiful once.

by Akimfu



Series: Halloween Terrorfest 2019 [5]
Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Alley handjobs, Alternate Universe, Art References, Art folk are just like that, Autumn, Blood, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Cats, Dirty Alleys, Edinburgh, Halloween Terrorfest 2019, Hand Jobs, Horror, Irving is kinda drunk at some point and has no idea what he's doing, Iving is kinda fucked up in this one, M/M, Mild Gore, Murder, Post-World War I, Prostitute!Hickey, Prostitution, Public Hand Jobs, Repressed!Irving, Sexual Repression, Sketches, Snow, Winter, naturalist paintings, references to cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-23
Updated: 2019-10-23
Packaged: 2020-12-31 21:30:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21152513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Akimfu/pseuds/Akimfu
Summary: He didn't need Hickey. When he needed models, he used family members or friends. But the painter John Irving liked to sketch him, obsessively, in a million poses: some obscene and truly sinful.





	You found me beautiful once.

**i**

The wind was chilling, marking the beginning of Autumn and the street lights made the city look dingy and sickening, making the painter John Irving remember that he was running out of brown paint and needed to buy more. The people who rarely passed by hastily looked more like dun cats and the cats who casually passed by subtlely looked more like ebon apparitions. Some pubs were still packed. Irving turned to a dark alley instead. and continued his way in the shadows. The street noise could be still heard up to a point. Until he saw.

His target was currently working on a client. A handjob on a dirty alley._ "How pathetic."_, thought Irving, _"At least, bring the prostitute to a private room."_ The client came in a whimper, but a black cat who was sitting in darkness got frightened (_"Poor creatures are more sensitive than men."_) and ran away hissing and knocking down a trash can through the ground. The client and the male Irish prostitute named Cornelius Hickey finally noticed Irving, which made the former quite upset.

"You watchin'? Were you jerkin' off, huh?"

"He's my next client.", calmly, Hickey rested his left hand on the other man's shoulder, reassuring him, "Now fuck off."

And he did so, crossing the alley apace, stepping on the puddles of unknown strange smelled liquid. Irving moved his stare to look at Hickey once again and found him now pocking him with his knife.

"Let's go to your house."

**ii**

John Irving was a man of faith foremost: he went to the Mass every Sunday, there's no habitant of Edinburgh who didn't think about Irving less than one of the most virtuous and talented painters in the British Empire. His paintings were lovely naturalist landscapes, on the style of Constable and sometimes compared to Millet. When he needed models, he used family members or friends. Even though the art model job had a history of being associated with prostitutes, extramarital lovers and other low-class occupations, because Irving's paintings were of such innocent subject-matters, the people he painted didn't mind.

He didn't need Hickey. But he liked to sketch him, in a million poses, some obscene and truly sinful.

"Why did you choose me?", asked Hickey, who was always very still in his ordered position. On that day, he was lying in Irving's lush bed, with his right hand obscenely close to his pubic area (Irving ordered him to put his hand on his belly. Hickey landed his hand in the perfect position as if he read the painter's mind). The pose was shockingly sexual in nature: on that moment, on that night, Hickey was the most seductive whore in Edinburgh, maybe in the entire world.

"When are you going to show the painting where you use my face?", Hickey inquired again, "Not even going to touch them, I'm just curious."

All the drawings of Hickey were kept on a secret sketchbook that Irving hid on a locked drawer on his bedtable. On that sketchbook, Irving drew in black graphite monsters born in his deepest nightmares, that could make Fuseli or Doré scream in horror. Alongside those unearthly horrors, several Hickeys smiled with dry blood made of red graphite in his lips, fangs and hands in many poses.

But his favourite was his first drawing.

**iii**

The first time he saw the goblin-ish prostitute was a few moons ago. Still to this day, John Irving can't completely recall all the events on that evening. Instead of being on the party that his family organized in hopes that Irving may finally find a proper bride for himself, and where he probably drank too much, he was walking on the serpentine streets of Edinburgh, where there's dark stone and darker tile everywhere you see. It had snowed, so there's no soul outside, not even stray cats rooming around. Only Irving's dun figure under the yellow electric light. Then there was red. _"Such rare colour."_, though Irving to himself, _"There should be more red in the world."_

Inconsciently, he followed the trail of red and he found himself in a dimly lit alley, where an angel in red cut opened a person Irving recognized but couldn't remember his name. _"It was a very simple surname. One syllable. The simpler names are the ones who are most difficult to remember. Farr? Or was it Carr?"_

"Are you going to call the police?", asked the angel, words as red as his mouth.

He could've easily stabbed Irving with his knife, one jump and the naked creature could've another body to eat. Instead, he studied Irving with his dark eyes, waiting for a response.

"No, I'm going to draw you.", said Irving, taking the newly-bought sketchbook that he thought was going to use in his frequent field trips.

The naked creature with red hair, red teeth and red hands was confused. Irving could see in his face, brows going down and shoulders still in a defensive position.

Irving doesn't remember how he returned to his house with a now used sketchbook and the smell of graphite and blood on his fingers. He only remembered the unbearable need to find his red angel.

**iv**

"I only draw landscapes.", said Irving, "Sometimes portrayals."

"Landscapes are lovely and all, but... don't you think your style is a bit... outdated? You're young. Kids these days are painting their nightmares. Were you at the Great War?"

"No, I was too young to be enlisted.", _"My older brothers were..."_, Irving wanted to say, _"One of them even died."_

"Shame.", said the southern lady, dismissingly, "All the best artists have their pain."

"I don't want to insult my lady, but the lack of pain is not what I suffer. I just refuse to draw such... ugly, nefarious things."

"Well, you did insult me and I think your watercolours are tedious and sleep-inducing. I thought Scotland had better artists and it seems a lady has to go to the mainland to have some fun."

**v**

"You found me beautiful once.", commented Hickey, lying on the red velvet sofa; his head lovely paused on a white laced pillow and his right ankle wiggling alongside a song only Hickey could hear.

"No, you're beautiful always.", Irving casually commented, more concentrated on the curvature of Hickey's back and wondering how many times he had to pray in order for his unnatural hunger for Hickey's flesh and body and soul to be finally gone. He thought painting him on graphite and watercolours and doing outdoor activities regularly would cease them, but it seemed it was making them worse. His weekly seasons with him seemed to feed him a need he didn't know it existed, but recently his newly-discovered hunger had gotten worse. Perhaps this was a bad idea.

"No, there's something more. You're not the average homosexual."

"A what?"

Hickey didn't move, "You know... a bugger. A man who engages in sexual activities with the same sex."

Irving was shocked with the assumption, "I would never engage in sexual activities with another man. God made Eve, so she could give birth to Adam's children. Men and women, not men and other men. Do you think I don't condemn your profession? I feel disgusted when I watch you doing... your job."

"So you admit you watch me fucking other men.", Hickey smirked. Irving blushed. Hickey had trapped him in a dark alley before he could respond, "I agree with you, I think you indeed feel disgusted, because I'm buggin' other men and not you."

Irving didn't know what to answer. He couldn't admit he was right, because it meant he wanted to commit that carnal sin. No, John Irving was a man of faith: he didn't sin, not even once. His only sin was hubris and pride he felt and had from the beautiful things in life and nature he loved and enjoyed. Like Hickey's hair and the blood of the people he killed. But Irving knew he’d never ever taste his red lips. That would truly be a sin.

**Author's Note:**

> I really proud of this fic, even though I finished it a bit late. If I wrote this in normal circumstances, I'd wait a few days to reread this and fix details I normally don't notice on a first read, but because it's the Halloween Terrorfest and I'm late, I've to publish unbeta'd. I'm sorry if you saw some minor errors.  
Please, comment below what you think. I'll definitely revisit this fic in the future. :)


End file.
